


He who destroys the light

by BonesAndScales



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail in the woods, But really little, Fluff, Gods AU, I have no idea, M/M, Will the traveller, also dead people, maybe a lil bit of angst, maybe middle ages, mostly - Freeform, what era is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 05:19:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14969930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonesAndScales/pseuds/BonesAndScales
Summary: Abigail is hit with a sudden realisation. “Are you the God of the Forest?” she asks, unable to hide the awe in her voice.“‘God of the forest’?” Will says, slight disbelief in his voice. “This forest doesn’t belong to anyone.”Abigail, looks down at the footprints Will leaves in the snow. And yep, these are definitely flowers growing in there absolutely out of nowhere.Gods AU. While wandering in the woods, Abigail comes across a strange man. With flowers popping in his footprints.





	He who destroys the light

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this one. Have some more fluff!
> 
>  **Warnings** : A lil bit of violence, some blood here and there.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Abigail trudges through the snow slowly. Her light clothes are nowhere near enough to fend off the cold.

She was not allowed to take anything when the villagers practically kicked her out of the village. She did not even have time to grab her father’s hunting knife and hide it in her clothes before they barged into her home.

Her arms are wrapped tightly around her middle, but she can barely feel her fingers anymore. Her breaths come out in shuddering puffs, leaving little clouds around her. She is going to die here, in the cold, where nobody will find her corpse. There is not anybody left to mourn her anyway. She will collapse in exhaustion, and fall asleep in the snow, and then the wolves will feed on her corpse.

She hears a growl behind her, and stops in her track. Speak of the Devil.

Abigail turns her head slowly, and sure enough half a dozen wolves are standing there, growling and showing their teeth. She turns to face them, still careful not to make any sudden movement, and take a few steps back, until she sees a log peeking from underneath the snow. She promptly grabs it with both hands and holds it in front of herself. She is not a corpse yet.

Two of them step forward and growl at her. She snarls right back at them. “Have at thee, wolves.” If she is going out, she is going out with a bang.

Everything stills for a long, heavy second, and then one of them jumps at her.

Abigail swipes her log at the wolf. And it proves to be an extremely lucky strike because the wolf is sent to the ground with a high pitched whine. And then the others are lunging towards her with their teeth bared. Maybe not so lucky after all.

Abigail swipes her log right and left to fend them off. She feels them biting her legs and tugging at her clothes, trying to bring her down. She shouts when teeth clamp down on her arms and she lets go of the log. The next second she is down on the ground. She can only scream as she feels their fangs tearing through her clothes and sinking into her flesh, ripping chunks of skin and sending blood flying, smearing the snow. Oh God, she is going to die.

And then a series of barks echo around her and one of the wolves is flung off of her, shoved aside by another wolf running into him. Soon all the wolves are shoved off her. She barely has the time to register that it is not wolves, but dogs that just saved her before two arms grab her under the armpits and she is hoisted on someone’s shoulder, the someone in question running away from the fight.

“Who—What—!”

“Quiet,” the person hisses. A man, going by his voice.

After what felt like an eternity of running—although it could not have been more than a minute—and the cries of the wolves are no longer audible, the man finally relents, slowing his pace until he comes to a stop. He puts Abigail back on the ground, her back against a tree.

Abigail can finally see his face. A middle aged man. Brown hair, blue eyes, a scruffy face. A large cloak covering his form, and what looks like a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. A traveller, most likely.

The man takes a vial out of his bag, opens the cap and Abigail grimaces at the strong smell. He applies the ointment on the gashes on her arms and ribs. She hisses when the stinging sensation kicks in.

“Who are you?” she asks.

He does not answer, places the vial back in the bag, and scoops her up again, resuming his trudging through the snow. Because of her injuries she can’t wrap her arms around his neck for better leverage, but the man seems to be doing just fine. With nothing else to do, and sensing that he would not answer if she were to ask anything, she studies his face.

The man looks a little younger than her father, maybe by a few years. His eyes are not actually blue, but a mix of blue and green. His curly hair bounce around his face with each step. His beard is neatly trimmed, which is rather peculiar for a traveller. Little clouds of white air come out of his mouth with each puff.

After a few minutes, the dogs find them again, their fur surprisingly free of blood. The man clicks his tongue when he sees that the smallest of the pack is slightly limping. He throws Abigail over his shoulder, a little _oof_ escaping her at the sudden change, and then crouches down to take his injured dog under his arm.

From her new vantage point, although uncomfortable, Abigail can now see the six dogs, plus the one under the man’s arm, running around them.

“Hello there,” she says, smiling at them and waving with the arm that hurts her the less.

One dog barks in response, and then all the others follow. They seem better mannered than their owner. The man clicks his tongue again to shush the dogs.

After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, the crushing boredom urges Abigail to say, “I’m Abigail. You?”

After a while, when she thinks she is not getting any answer, the man says, “Will.”

Ah. Finally. “Nice to meet you, Will. Where’re you taking me?”

“Somewhere safe.”

It is only then that Abigail notices something strange about the footprints Will leaves behind. She looks closely, rubbing her eyes in case they are playing tricks on her. There are little flowers and grass, lush and green, growing inside the little circles left in the snow.

Abigail is hit with a sudden realisation. “Are you the God of the Forest?” she asks, unable to hide the awe in her voice.

“‘God of the forest’?” Will says, slight disbelief in his voice. “This forest doesn’t belong to anyone.”

Abigail, looks down at the footprints Will leaves in the snow. And yep, these are definitely flowers growing in there absolutely out of nowhere. “Are you human?”

“Of course I’m human.”

Abigail is lost. “But you have grass and flowers popping around your feet?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“That’s very atypical for a human.”

“Well, it takes all sorts to make a world.”

Abigail hoists herself up on one arm, turns slightly to look at the back of Will’s head. One of the dogs yips at her, and Will clicks his tongue once more. After a second of staring at Will’s hair, Abigail says, “I’ve never seen anyone with flowers growing in their footprints.”

“You don’t go out much, do you?”

Abigail just stares at him, no answer at the ready.

 

* * *

 

They make it to a little cave, not too far from a stream, just above ground level.

Will lowers Abigail on the ground against the wall of the cave and then lies his injured dog on the ground a few metres away from her to take care of him. Three dogs huddle close to her, and she runs her hands in their fur, grateful for the warmth they share with her. She stops momentarily when she sees that almost all her injuries are healed, living behind little patches of smooth skin. She touches those carefully, pleased to see that she did not loose her sense of touch.

“If you could refrain from taking unnecessary risks, that would save us a lot of trouble,” Will whispers to his dog as he applies something on the injury on his belly, “You don’t have to compensate your size with hot-headedness.” The dog whines softly and Will strokes his back to comfort him.

If Abigail was surprised to see her injuries gone, she is even more baffled to see Will barefoot. She stares, and blinks and stares some more. “You don’t have shoes,” she says.

“No.”

When no explanation follows she asks, “Why don’t you have shoes?”

“Because I don’t like shoes.”

That explains absolutely nothing. “But it’s snowing.”

“Yes, I noticed.”

When Will is finished with bandaging his dog, he lift him in his arms, and places him near Abigail. The other dogs circle them and lie down in a pile to keep the injured dog warm. Will rewards each one with a little pat on the head. They yip happily and lick his palm.

“Aren’t you cold?” Abigail asks.

“No, why?

“Because it’s snowing.”

“I like the snow.”

That does not explain anything either. Abigail knows that common sense is, despite its name, not that common, but this is a whole new level of unbelievable.

Will stands up and goes to stand at the entrance of the cave. He looks over the forest. “Night will fall soon. I’ll go look for logs to make a fire.” He looks back at the pile of dogs. “Winston, come here.” The dog with the golden fur rises and shakes his head, trotting up to him. He circle around Will’s legs, and Will scratches his ears before looking back at Abigail, “Keep an eye on Buster.”

And then him and Winston are out of the cave before she can ask who Buster is.

Abigail looks at the little pack. “Buster?”

The injured ones lifts his little head, looking at her expectantly. Ah. Figured.

 

* * *

 

When night falls, Will lights a fire near the entrance of the cave. The pile of dogs relocates itself near the fire, Buster now healed. Abigail follows them, sitting near the fire, a few feet away from Will.

He hands her some food, mostly seeds and dried fruits. This is her first meal since she was chased from the village. She accepts it like a gift from God, doing her best not to just wolf it all down.

“So what are you doing, all alone in the woods, clearly underdressed for the weather?” Will asks, eating pomegranate seeds.

Abigail considers lying, or just telling him she does not want to tell him. But their eyes meet and she immediately feels compelled to tell the truth. “I was exiled from my village.”

Will pops a seed in his mouth, chewing slowly. “Exiled. What’re you accused of?”

“I killed my dad.” Better to say it at once.

Will pauses at that, looks her in the eye for a long time. “What happened?”

“He tried to kill me. So I killed him first,” she finds it surprisingly easy to say this to Will.

“You didn’t tell them he tried to kill you?

“They didn’t let me speak.” Abigail looks down at the dried fruits in her hand. “When he tried to kill me, I screamed for help, but nobody would come, so I had to defend myself. They only came once I killed him. And threw me out the gates without asking anything. Talk about bad timing,” she huffs a little laugh, devoid of any joy.

One of the dogs—Jack, if she is not mistaken—whines softly in his sleep and Will makes soft shushing sounds to calm him, stroking his back. The dogs settles, and silence returns to the cave. “People here tend to jump to conclusions, never questioning what they see or what they’re told.”

“I wish they did.”

The cave is silent again. The only sound audible is the soft crackling of the fire. Abigail picks at her dried fruits, chewing each one slowly. She knows Will’s eyes are fixed on her form, she feels his gaze piercing through her. Oddly, it feels neither intrusive nor uncomfortable. She knows she could confide him in anything and her secrets would still be safe. Instead of giving in, she changed the focus of the conversation. She looks back up at him. “And you? What are you doing in this forest?”

“Going home,” he says simply.

“Home?”

“Yeah, that’s not too far from here. My husband’s waiting for me there.”

Oh. That was unexpected. “You’re married?” She looks down at his hands. “But you don’t have a ring?”

“We don’t wear rings. It’s not in his culture.” Will shrugs. “And while I see the appeal of giving consistency to a bond with a physical token, I don’t really care for it,” he pops a seed in his mouth, “I mean, we know we’re married. That’s enough for us.”

Abigail nods her head once. She has always found the tradition of wearing wedding rings very romantic. But she knows that some people think of it as an inconvenience or as superficial. Or do not have enough savings to buy rings. “And why aren’t you together? Did you get separated?”

Winston lifts his head, yawns and shakes his head. He rises, looking at Will expectantly, his tail wagging. Will gestures him closer and Winston drops in a little ball in his lap. Will runs his hand in his fur slowly.

“I’ve always loved to travel. That’s something I didn’t want to give up, even when I got married.” Winston lifts his head and whines softly. “He has a lot of work to do, so he can’t always come with me.” Will gives him a pomegranate seed and Winston settles his head back on Will’s thigh. “I leave for a few months. Go around the world. Then I come back home to rest. And a few months after, I pack a bag and leave again.” Will pops another seed in his mouth, chewing slowly. “He likes to hear about my trips. Things I did, places I saw, people I met. And I think he has a thing for my voice,” he adds, as an afterthought, a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Abigail eats the last of her fruits. “You don’t spend a lot of time together.”

“A few months each year.”

“And you’re okay with that? You don’t miss each other?”

“We do. But it makes our reunions all the sweeter,” Will says, a soft smile gracing his lips.

 

* * *

 

Abigail’s eyes flutter open. She can see the first rays of sun peaking over the treetops, through the entrance of the little cave.

She rubs her eyes and sits up slowly. The fire is out, all the logs reduced to cold ashes. Will’s cloak is draped over her form, keeping her warm. The dogs are lying in a pile around her, snoring softly, their paws sometimes twitching in their sleep. Will and Winston are nowhere in sight.

She stands, careful not to wake the dogs, and tip toes towards the entrance of the cave. A layer of fresh snow has covered the forest during the night. She tries to get a good look through the trees. The sun is starting to appear through the trees in the horizon. After a while, she sees Winston’s little head peaking from the blanket of snow, soldiering on. He barks once when he sees Abigail standing at the entrance of the cave.

And then Will’s form appear, looking a lot less imposing without his cloak on. His clothes are thin, loose over his shoulders, but he does not seem bothered by the cold. He did say he liked the snow.

“Where’d you go?” Abigail asks when Will is within hearing range.

“Breakfast,” he says, holding up his bag. Probably more fruits and seeds. He holds Winston up to help him into the cave, and Abigail takes the dog in her arms to deposit him inside. “And I went to check if the wolves are okay, after what happened yesterday.”

Abigail reels back at this. “I was only defending myself. And your dogs did most of the work,” she says, ready to argue if need be. It was her or them, she did nothing wrong.

“I know. I’m not scolding you.” Will brushes off the snow sticking to his pant legs. He is still barefoot. Abigail wonders how he still has feet at all. He should have lost them to the cold a while ago. But his feet seem just fine. Not a blister, not a scar, not even frozen toes. Abigail is starting to think that he actually is the God of the Forest.

“Why did you have to check on them?” she asks.

“This winter’s going to be harsh. The pack won’t make it through if they loose several members before the worst of it even started.”

Abigail looks over at the layer of snow covering the forest, wondering how it could get any worse. Will sits on the edge of the cave, and Abigail joins him when he beckons her closer. He hands her a pouch full of fruits and seeds. He only takes a pomegranate for himself, and opens it with a hunting knife. Abigail stares at the knife for a long time, not in fear but in admiration. It is a beautiful knife, an intricate design carved into the white hilt—ivory?— and the blade pristine and razor sharp. It must be worth a fortune.

Abigail eats the little berries inside the pouch. It is the first time she sees those berries, they have peculiar forms and do not taste like anything she ate before. She likes their sweetness. “Are the wolves okay?”

“Yeah, they’ll make it.”

Abigail nods once. “How do you know the winter’s going to get worse?”

“My husband’s good at predicting these kind of things.”

“Your husband? I thought you hadn’t seen him in months?”

“He told me before I left. Told me to get home earlier, if I wanted to avoid the snow.” Will turns around. “Hey, Buster. Come here, boy.” Buster pokes his little snout against Abigail’s arm, and drops his head on her lap. She feeds him some berries. Soon the other dogs follow, forming a little pile on the edge of the cave. “I planned on going home sooner, but well, looks like I wasn’t fast enough.”

“Your husband won’t be angry if you bring me along?”

“No, don’t worry. He won’t do anything, as long as you’re not rude.” Will gives the last of the seeds to the dogs. “You can stay with us for the winter, if you want to. There’s plenty of place in our home.”

“Plenty of place. Are you rich?” She looks down at his light clothing, “You don’t exactly look like an aristocrat. No offense.”

“You don’t need to be rich to have a big home.”

Uh. Yes. Yes, you need to. “Big houses are expensive.”

“Unless you build it yourself.”

Abigail just stares at him, wide eyed, for a while. Then she picks up her jaw and says, “Fair enough.”

 

* * *

 

“Here. Take this one,” Will hands her a hunting knife, “Just in case.”

Abigail takes it, and turns it in her hands. This one is slightly smaller than the one Will uses, and the hilt’s engravings are not as intricate, but it is just as sharp, and that is all she needs. “It looks very expensive. Where’d you buy it?”

“I made it.”

Abigail looks up in surprise. “Oh. It’s beautiful,” she simply says, because it really is. She ties it to her belt tightly. Would not do good to lose it.

“Thanks,” Will slings his bag over his shoulder, “Keep my cloak. You’ll need it more than I do.”

Abigail wraps the cloak tightly around her shoulders. Will jumps off the ledge of the cave and helps each of the dogs down, and then Abigail.

They resume their journey, Will leading their little procession. The snow reaches just under Abigail’s knees, greatly slowing her pace. The dogs are digging a narrow path in the snow, walking in line. Abigail walks behind Will, trying to walk into the little circles of grass he leaves behind himself. She refuses vehemently when he offers to carry her through the worse of it. They trudge through the snow at a slow pace until noon, when they come across a river.

Will sits on a log near the bank, and the dogs gather around him to eat. Abigail flops down beside him, already exhausted. He takes a little bag containing dried meat and offers her a few stripes, and feeds some to the dogs. Abigail chews the dried meat slowly, grateful for something more consistent than fruits and seeds.

“You said you travel a lot, right?” She says, between two bites. “But where are you from?”

“The South.”

“The Capital?”

Will chuckles. “No, not the Capital. I’m from another country, far from here, in the South. A country where it never snows.”

Abigail’s head snaps up. “Never snows? How is that possible?”

One of the dogs—Ellie, if Abigail recalls correctly—yips excitedly, asking for another stripe of meat, which Will provides, scratching the dog’s ears. “There are a lot of places where the snow never falls. Just like there are places where the snow never stops falling.”

Abigail looks at him in wonder.

Will smile at her. “You don’t travel much, do you?”

Abigail shakes her head. “But I wanted to. I planned on leaving the village to go to the Capital, once I become an adult. That would’ve been next year. I was looking forward to it.”

Will reaches into his bag taking out a pomegranate. Abigail declines the one he offers her. He cuts the fruit open. “You know, you remind me of myself a lot. I was just like you, when I was your age. Grew up with parents that just wouldn’t let me go.” He pops a few seeds into his mouth, and slips some to his dogs. “One day I had enough. Packed a bag and left the house. I don’t regret it.” A little smile graces his lips.

One of the dogs puts his head on Abigail’s thigh and she gives him a stripe of meat. “And you hoarded a pack of strays along the way.”

“Ah, no. They belonged to my husband. They were his guard dogs. But they love me better now, right, boys?” The dogs yip happily and Will rewards them with pomegranate seeds and ear scratches.

Abigail huffs a little laugh and gives her last stripe to Buster. She rubs her hands then looks back at Will. “How did you guys meet?”

“Oh nothing spectacular,” Will says, “I was minding my own business, examining a species of carnivorous plants I didn’t know, when he just came out of nowhere. Started blurting nonsense about fate and circumstances, and how ‘you can’t control with respect to whom you fall in love’. And yes, these are his exact words,” Will sighs in exasperation, but a tender smile graces his lips. “He’s so ridiculous it’s endearing. Don’t tell him I said that,” he adds quickly, looking back at Abigail.

Abigail laughs at that, clear and frank, and the dogs yip alongside her. “You two seem very much alike,” she says, a smile stuck on her lips.

“Maybe,” Will looks down a long time, petting his dogs, as they yawn and lie down between their legs. He seems to be deeply in thought. Abigail is about to ask him what he is thinking about when he says, “Would you like to stay with us?”

Abigail tilts her head. “Aren’t I already?”

“No, I mean, after this winter is over, would you like to stay with us? You could come with me on my travels. If you want to.”

Abigail did not expect this. She considers his words for a minute. “I won’t be an inconvenience? With the food and accommodations?”

“We have plenty of room and food at home. And I provide for eight mouths on my travels. What’s one more,” Will shrugs.

Abigail does not answer for a while, thinking it over. Buster yawns and rises, nosing at Abigail’s legs. She scoops him up in her arms, stroking his belly slowly as he dozes of again. “That’s a very generous offer. Too generous, actually. I don’t want to be a freeloader.”

“You can hunt and fish with us then. Help us keep our pantry full.”

“You think your husband would be okay with that?”

“He would,” he says, those two little words loaded with meaning, although Abigail does not know what that meaning is.

“I’ll think about it,” she says, caressing Buster ears slowly when he whines in his sleep.

 

* * *

 

Abigail is frozen in place, wide eyed, her mouth slightly open.

The stag exhales, a little cloud forming around its head. She did not hear it approaching them, its steps silent in the snow. In years of hunting deer with her father, she has never seen a stag like this one. Its antlers are black, and there are feathers strewn in its dark coat. The stag towers over her, regal and otherworldly. It is beautiful. Terrifyingly so.

“He’s very sensitive to fear and anger,” Will says softly, standing beside the stag, his hand caressing the fur of its neck in slow, broad strokes. “Don’t be afraid.”

Abigail looks at the dogs excitedly circling the stag’s legs, their tails wagging wildly. She takes a deep breath and a tentative step forward. The stag exhales and she stills again. Will smiles and extends a hand towards her. After a while, she takes another step forward, reaching for Will’s hand. He takes her wrist, and gently pulls her forward, bringing her hand to the stag’s nose.

Abigail releases a silent gasp, a little cloud forming around her mouth. She only ever touched dead stags before, to take their fur and their meat. The stag exhales again, pushing its—his—nose in her palm—so warm, so full of life. She can’t hold the smile pulling at her lips.

She takes another tiny step closer, taking his head in both hands, gently stroking his jaw. She looks into his eyes, two endless pools of black. And she sees the world in them. She sees the earth, the sky, the stars. She loses herself in those wells of darkness, and finds herself again, in a million lives, in a million worlds, across millions of universes.

Abigail closes her eyes and presses her forehead to the stag’s head, allowing herself this little delight, and lets the ecstasy of the unknown take her whole.

The spell breaks when she feels a hand running in her hair. Her eyes snap open. Will is still smiling at her, joy mixed with an inexplicable sorrow. “There’s more to life than what you’ve lived so far,” he says, “And there’s more to life than what one could ever live. More than what one could ever imagine.”

Abigail mulls his words over, trying to understand their meaning. She lets go of the stag with one last parting caress and takes a step back. The stag turns his head to Will, pushing his nose against Will’s arm. Will caresses his head slowly, holding their heads close. “I’m okay. I’ll be home soon,” he whispers near his ear.

The stag exhales, and then walks away, his steps just as silent as when he came, his hooves making neat little holes in the snow. The dogs jumps all over the place, and make to follow him but Will whistles and they gather around his legs again, falling over each other in the snow.

Abigail watches him leave, mesmerized by his antlers, gracefully avoiding the lowest branches of the trees, and his feather swaying gently with each step. Once he is out of sight, she release a breath she did not realise she was holding, and turns to Will. “That wasn’t a normal stag.” Understatement of the century.

“No, indeed.”

Abigail looks briefly at the spot where the stag disappeared between the trees. “Was that the God of the Forest?”

“Again with that? I told you this forest doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“But this stag has to be a God. Or a spirit,” she insists.

Will shrugs. “Maybe.” And he resumes their little march through the snow, the dogs following closely. Abigail throws one last glance in the direction the stag left, before following Will as well.

“You know him but you don’t know what he is?” Abigail asks when she catches up to him.

“He’s been wandering the woods for a long time. Long before I first came here.”

“And when was that?” Abigail stumbles on a root hidden under the snow, but catches herself before she can fall.

“A few years after I left my parent’s house. When I was still young and sprightly.”

“Young and sprightly? You don’t look that old. You look younger than my parents.”

Will chuckles. “Oh, I’m way older than your parents.”

Abigail stares at the back of his head, once again speechless with surprise and disbelief.

 

* * *

 

“Wait here,” Will says, lifting an arm to signal for Abigail to stop. He whistles sharply, telling the dogs to stay with her. She wraps the cloak tighter around herself. The wind picked up a few hours earlier and the snow is starting to fall again. A blizzard is approaching.

She can barely see through the screen of snow. But she can make out a lump in the snow, a few metres from them. It looks like someone, wrapped tightly in a sturdy cloak, lying limply in snow under a tree, almost entirely covered by the snow. Will heads to the form, and kneels beside it. He pushes down the cloak a little.

After a minute he gestures at Abigail and the dogs to join him. The dogs jump through the thick layer of snow, Abigail tries to follow the little path of grass circles Will left behind himself. She kneels beside him.

It is a man, lying in the slow, his laborious breathing barely able to form little clouds of smoke with each exhale. The man looks old, frail, ill. His complexion rivals the colour of the snow, and his cheeks are all hollowed out, although the skin around his eyes looks swollen. He clearly has not had a decent meal for a long while.

“Abigail, take Max and Harley with you and go look for bear berries.” Will hands her a little pouch. “There are some not too far from here. Just follow the dogs, they know the way.”

Abigail nods and stands, the dogs bark and start ahead of her. She makes her best to follow them, pushing low branches out of the way, and jumping over protruding roots. After a few minutes of scrambling through the snow, the dogs finally find the little shrubs of bear berries. She pats the dogs to thank them and starts filling her pouch with the berries.

The way back is a lot easier and faster. They use the paths they already made in the snow. But when they make it back to Will, Abigail stops in her track. Will is alone with the dogs, still kneeling. The spot where the man was lying in now empty, only leaving a hole in the snow. Will stuffs a pomegranate cut in half back into his bag.

The dogs make it to Will and rub against his arms. He turns to look at Abigail. She approaches warily, looking around. “Where is he?”

Will stands, and brushes the snow off his pants. “Gone,” he simply says.

Abigail frowns. “Gone? Gone where?”

“Just gone.” Will whistles to gather the dogs. “Come on, let’s go. The blizzard is coming.” When he passes near her, Will takes the little pouch of bear berries from her hands with a quiet “Thank you”.

For a minute Abigail only stares, her brows furrowed, at the empty hole in the snow, quickly filling up again with fresh snow. She turns to follow Will’s track.

 

* * *

 

They find another cave just before the worst of the blizzard starts. The cave is over ground level again, although not as large as the previous one. Once again they have to hoist the dogs in one by one.

They huddle together in a pile far from the entrance, sitting against the wall of the cave just as the wind picks up and starts howling and hurling snow around. Abigail tightens the cloak around her shoulders. The wall of the cave seeps the warmth out of her through her clothes so she buries herself into Will’s side, holding Zoe in her arms. The other dogs lie tangled between their legs, rolled in little balls of fur.

“It’s been a while since I was stuck in the woods during a blizzard,” Abigail says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think I was ten or eleven. I went hunting with my dad, but we didn’t make it home before the blizzard started. We found a little cave, much like this one, and spent the night there.” Abigail strokes Zoe’s back slowly, tangling her fingers in her soft fur. “It was freezing, we didn’t have anything to make a fire. He gave me his cloak so I wouldn’t be cold, and I spent the night rolled up in it.”

Will considers what she said for a long time, stroking Winston’s head laid on his thigh. “Your father loved you.”

Abigail’s laugh is devoid of any joy. “If he loved me he wouldn’t have tried to kill me.”

“He tried to kill you because he loved you.”

“Strange way to show his love,” she retorts, curt and bitter.

Will closes his eyes, speaking softly. “He knew you’d leave the house soon, and he couldn’t stand to lose you.”

Abigail’s hand stills in Zoe’s fur. She leans away from Will, bewildered. “Are you saying it’s my fault?”

“No. He’s the only one to blame for trying to kill you,” Will says, looking at her. “I’m just trying to understand his thought process.”

Abigail frowns, staring at Will, until Zoe whines, requesting some more petting. Abigail obliges. “Why would you want to understand the mind of a killer?”

“I can’t help it. That’s a little habit I cant get rid of,” he says, shrugging. He looks in front of himself again, at the opposite wall of the cave. “I look at people and I know what they think, see what they see. I assume their point of view and understand their state of mind.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

Will nods once, sighing as if the thought alone was exhausting. “It is.”

Abigail leans back into his side, seeking warmth. “Is that why you travel so much? To be alone?”

“That’s one of the reasons, yeah.” The wind outside starts howling louder, rattling the walls of the cave. Some of the dogs whine softly, and Will makes soft shushing noises, stroking their fur to calm them.

Abigail strokes Zoe’s head slowly. “Why get married at all, then? You’re binding yourself to someone, forcing interactions with all the thinking and the seeing.”

“My husband is… a little special. He has a very particular way of thinking. And a very particular way of seeing the world.” He reaches into his bag and takes out a pomegranate. He opens it with his knife and feeds the seeds to his dogs. “We spend most of our time knocking ideas back and forth in imperious verbal sparring, but I find it strangely relaxing. It’s comforting to be with someone who understands you just as much as you understand them. I’ve yet to find myself regretting binding myself to him.”

Abigail lays her head on his shoulder. “I’m surprised you can stand my presence. I’m not much of a verbal sparring partner.”

“I guess you must be a little special too.” Will smiles at her, handing her one half of the pomegranate. She takes it, brings one seed to her lips, humming at the tart and sweet taste. She feeds some to Zoe as well.

 

* * *

 

Abigail wakes up rolled up in the warmth of Will’s cloak. The dogs are bundled around her, adding to the heat.

When she opens her eyes she freezes at the greenery she sees. She sits up, runs her hands in the bed of grass and moss under her, her eyes wide. Around the mattress of grass and moss, forming a little circle around her and the dogs, are roots and ivy, sprinkled with colourful flowers.

Will made a nest.

“That’s definitely not typically human,” Abigail says to herself.

Speaking of which, Will is nowhere in sight. Abigail stands slowly, so as not to disturb the dogs, and carefully steps out of the little nest of grass and ivy.

She makes it to the entrance of the cave, covering her eyes to shield them from the first rays of sunlight peaking through the horizon. The blizzard left a new layer of snow over the forest. There are two tracks in the snow, starting from the cave, and disappearing into the forest. One of them is a carpet of fresh grass and flowers.

Abigail jumps off the ledge of the cave, secures the cloak around her shoulders and follows the track of grass.

After a few minutes of trekking, it leads her to a stream. She hers the water running and hitting the rocks before she sees it. And then she sees it. And she clasps a hand on her mouth.

Will is there, but no longer dressed as lightly as he had been for the past few days. There is a heavy fur coat draped around his shoulder, the end of the coat forming a heap around his feet, shielding him from the cold.

But that is not what surprised her.

Will is not alone. There is another man, taller than Will, probably older too, looking everything like an aristocrat, from his expensive clothing to his sharp features. His arms are wrapped tightly around Will’s waist, holding their bodies close, while Will’s arms are wrapped around his neck, tugging him down, keeping their mouths sealed together.

Abigail feels her knees shaking in fear. Something primal inside of her tells her to run, far away, far from this man, and never look back. This man is, without a doubt, the God of the Forest. Terror grips at her stomach, twisting it in her belly, just as embarrassment colours her cheeks and makes her heart beat faster.

She knows she is standing before a powerful and dangerous being, but at the same time she can’t help but feel like a child walking in on her parents doing something private. There is no mistaking the love and the tenderness between Will and the man. They break their kiss, bringing their foreheads together, and she sees them talking in hushed voices, stroking each other’s face and hair. And the awkward feeling of intruding wins over the fear.

Until the God of the Forest turns his eyes on her and the terror returns with a vengeance, tearing through her guts. Her trembling has nothing to do with the cold of the snow. Those eyes meet her and she feels like teeth are ripping her ribcage open. She takes a step back but before she can turn on her heels and run, a gust of wind pushes her forward, towards the two men. It stops when she is but a few metres from them.

Abigail is petrified, staring at them with wide eyes, her mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out.

“Jesus fuck, stop that. You’re scaring her,” Will says, tapping the other man’s shoulder lightly.

“You brought someone.”

“Great observation skills, good job,” Will extracts himself from the tight embrace, stepping a little to the side. He indicates Abigail with a hand. “This is Abigail.” He then indicates the other man. “Abigail, this is my husband.”

The God of the Forest extends a hand towards her, his other hand still on Will’s waist to keep him close. “Come here, child. I won’t hurt you.”

Abigail does not move an inch. “Are you the God of the Forest?” she asks quietly, both in fear and awe.

The God of the Forest turns surprised eyes to Will. “You didn’t tell her?”

“She was already scared enough,” Will says, shrugging, “didn’t need to add to it.”

Okay. This man is not the God of the Forest. Maybe the situation is still salvageable for her.

The not God of the Forest looks back at her, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “I’m the God of the Dead.”

Not okay. Not okay at all. Abigail takes another step back, her eyes wide open. She grabs the knife tied to her belt and holds it in front of herself with both hands.

“He’s not going to hurt you,” Will says softly in the same voice he uses to calm his pack.

“Of course not.” The God of the Dead tilts his head. “Would you like to come with us, child?”

Will elbows him in the ribs, making the God of the Dead look back at him. “Her name’s Abigail.”

“Would you like to come with us, child Abigail?” He amends.

Will rolls his eyes so hard, Abigail thinks they are going to roll out of their sockets. Her hold tightens on the knife. She shakes her head frantically, her voice trembles when she says, “I can’t come with you.”

“No?”

“You’re the God of the Dead,” she soldiers on, despite the lump of fear forming in her throat, “I can’t follow you. I don’t belong to your realm.”

The God of the Dead sends another surprised look at Will, one eyebrow arched inquisitively. “You didn’t tell her either.”

“I was getting there. Slowly,” Will grumbles.

A terrible truth starts taking form in Abigail’s mind. A truth she buried deep inside her mind. There is only one reason the God of the Dead would present himself in front of a mortal. She denies that reason fiercely. “I was attacked by the wolves,” she says, “They could see me. They could touch me,” Abigail looks down at the snow, at the footprints she left in the perfect layer of white. “I can feel the snow. I can feel the cold.”

The God of the Dead stares at her for a minute. “Tell me, child. Where are we right now?”

“The forest,” she says, without missing a beat, “The forest around my village.”

The God of the Dead sighs softly, a little cloud forming around his mouth. He turns his eyes to Will again. “Beloved, you didn’t tell her anything, did you?”

“I’m telling you I was getting there. Didn’t think we’d find you so soon.” Will detaches himself from the God of the Dead. He takes a step towards Abigail, but stops when she immediately lifts the knife higher. He considers her a moment. “Abigail. You told me your father tried to kill you and so you killed him, right? What happened afterwards?”

Abigail swallows once. “The villagers came into our home.”

“And then?”

“Then, they threw me out the gates.”

“They didn’t talk to you, did they?”

“No, they didn’t.” She already told him that. She does not like where this is going.

Will nods once, before asking, “And why is that?”

Abigail frowns. “Because… Because I killed my dad. I was exiled.”

The God of the Dead says, “In your village, parricides are tried and hanged. Not exiled.”

Abigail knows that. And yet, “No, I was…,” yet she buried this knowledge alongside the truth, “They threw me out of the gates, they didn’t want to know why I killed my dad, they just…” she trails off, unsure of what she could say.

After a moment of silence, Will asks, his voice still soft and soothing, “How long have you been walking in the snow? Before I found you.”

“A few days. Maybe a week I don’t know.” She shakes her head. She does not want to know.

“And during those days, what did you eat?”

Abigail frowns, searching through her memories. What did she eat? Berries? Roots? No. “I... didn’t eat anything,” she says in a small voice, her grip on the knife faltering.

“And did you sleep at all?”

Abigail bites her lower lip hard. No, she did not. She just kept walking, waiting for the exhaustion to force her to her knees. But it did not. So she kept walking. The truth is getting harder and harder to deny.

When she does not answer, the God of the Dead says, “Wandering souls need neither rest nor sustenance.”

Abigail closes her eyes, taking a deep shuddering breath. “I know.” And behind her closed eyelids, she sees the body of her father lying on the ground in front of her, lying in a pool of blood. And she sees her own pool of blood, spreading and spreading until it reaches that of her father’s, and they merge into one. And she sees the boots of the neighbours, rushing to reach her. She sees them turn her, shake her, call her name. But she can’t hear their voices, and she can’t respond to their calls. She sees them carry her limp body, out of the house, and out of the gates. Into the pit where they dispose of their dead.

Abigail swallows once to dislodge the lump in her throat. It does not go away, tightening her voice, reducing it to a whisper. “I know.”

She opens her eyes again when she hears footsteps breaking through the snow. Her vision is blurry, her eyes filling with unshed tears.

Will stops in front of her, places his hands on hers gently, lowers the knife and takes it off her hands, placing it somewhere under the thick coat. He takes Abigail face in his hands, strokes her cheeks with his thumbs. “It’s okay, Abigail. You’ll be okay,” he whispers.

He lifts the coat to enclose her trembling form in it, and share its soothing warmth with her. Abigail buries her face in his chest, sobbing softly, her tears finally flowing freely on her cheeks.

 

* * *

 

“Hadn’t you come across me, I would’ve been left wandering around endlessly, wouldn’t I?”

“I came to you because I saw you wandering on the threshold, without ever crossing the entrance. I thought I’d come and help you find it.”

“Like that man we found in the snow?”

“Yeah, he was already starting to realise that he no longer belonged to the world of the living and that he couldn’t stay there forever. I gave him a little push to make the last leap.”

“Pomegranate seeds?”

“Yeah.”

They are sitting on a little boat, crossing over a river with water as dark as the night sky. A tall woman, young looking and with delicate features—Chiyoh, if Abigail heard correctly—ferries them across the river. She stands at the bow, using a long stick to move the boat. Abigail is sitting near Will, shoulder to shoulder. The dogs lie in a pile in the middle of the boat, finishing their night.

The God of the Dead—Hannibal, according to Will, but Abigail is not quite ready to call the God of the Dead by his name—went ahead of them to make preparations for another person in their home. Whatever that means.

“And that stag? Is he a God like you?”

“I wonder. Like I said he’s been here for a long time. Hannibal told me he just appeared one day, and never left again,” Will says, shrugging. “He protects the threshold, keeps the living outside, and the dead inside, much like the wolves you came across.”

Abigail nods slowly. It is a lot to take in. Hopefully, now that she crossed the threshold she will have some time to herself to think about everything. A ray of sunlight bounces off the dark waters of the river and she looks up. Her eyes widen at the sight of light flooding in, ahead of them. “Is that sunlight?” she asks in awe. She thought the Sun never touched the land of the dead.

“That would be the Elysium. My garden.”

Abigail looks at him in surprise. “Your garden? I thought the Elysium was a special place for the best mortal souls that happened upon your realm?”

“A special place for—no, no, Jesus, no, who told you that?” Will says, a baffled look on his face. “No, I told Hannibal that I missed the sunlight so he made the Elysium for me. Honestly, I was expecting something more along the lines of a little greenhouse near the entrance. I didn’t think he’d destroy a third of the ceiling to let light in. But I’m not complaining,” Will smiles, looking at the pillar of light descending through the sky. “I’m sure it turned into a jungle after all these months. I’ll have to tend to it,” he turns to Abigail, “You want to help?”

Abigail nods her head, a smile tugging at her lips.

Today, she learned something very important. The God of the Dead is whipped.

 

**Author's Note:**

> In case the summary wasn’t already a dead giveaway, Will is Persephone.
> 
> Rambling ahead!
> 
> I always wondered why Will was so often likened to Persephone other than that she is the spouse of Hades and since Hades is often likened to Hannibal, Will was given the role of Persephone for convenience. 
> 
> In the most popular version of the myth, Persephone is a passive victim. We don’t know how she felt at any point in the tale, before, during or after her abduction. She isn’t given any choice or agency, doesn’t even seem to try and get away from Hades. And Will is nothing like this Persephone (imo). He actively tries to kill Hannibal multiple times and does his damnedest to get himself out of his predicament—until bad choices and circumstances throw him right back in, but that’s another story.
> 
> Then I read somewhere that in earlier versions on the myth, Persephone goes into the Underworld on her own, because she heard the cries of the people down there and wanted to comfort them. She stands at the entrance of the Underworld, giving pomegranate seeds to the wandering souls of the dead. Sometimes the dead aren’t aware that they’re dead so her job is to get them to understand that yes, buddy, you’re dead. She gives them serenity and wisdom so they can finally move on from their previous life.
> 
> I thought this one suited Will a lot more (still imo!). The man does have a caring and nurturing nature—dude is providing for seven dogs; also Peter Bernardone; also righteous violence and compassion; also the wounded bird—along his inclinations towards murder.
> 
> Also, I read somewhere that Persephone means “She who destroys the light”.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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